Sharpe's Brigade
by Josh SB
Summary: Newly promoted and given command of a Brigade, Sharpe's biggest dream has just come true. But with the new command comes an impossible task: the French have planned a surprise winter invasion of Portugal and Sharpe's men are the only force available. Against overwhelming odds he must face the French, and in the blood and chaos of his command he will be tested more than before. AU
1. Chapter 1: The Promotion

Chapter One: The Promotion

Richard Sharpe was ecstatic.

His hands shook as he read the Commission from the top to the bottom. He read it again, scarcely believing its contents, then read it a third time before the realisation finally began to sink in.

"Christ!" He said the word unknowingly.

Major General Nairn, resplendent in a scarlet and gold dressing gown, grinned broadly as he grasped Sharpe's hand in congratulation.

"Prinny's mad, Sharpe! I told you! Mad as a hatter!" His face was delighted as he beamed at Sharpe.

Sharpe's legs trembled as he read the Commission a fourth time, holding the paper in front of his face. He collapsed into his chair, feeling light-headed as his head touched the backrest. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw the words flashing in front of him. ' _We do by these Presents, Constitiute and Appoint you to be'._ He opened his eyes and stared hard at the paper. ' _a Brigadier General in our army now in Portugal and Spain.'_

A Brigadier General! A Brigadier bloody General! Christ in heaven!

"Only army rank, Sharpe," Nairn grinned. "I still outrank you, Brevet General or no."

Sharpe didn't care. So what if he was still technically a Colonel? It did not matter that once he returned to the South Essex he would be Colonel again, he was a General! Brigadier General Sharpe!

Nairn leaned forward in his chair, his eyes twinkling with anticipation. Sharpe noticed the movement and set the paper aside.

"Sir?"

Nairn grinned.

"Expecting it, aren't you?"

"The Commission, sir? No." Sharpe said, puzzled.

"Good God, Sharpe!" Nairn shook his head. "You're as daft as a bloody pudding!"

"I am, sir?" Sharpe said.

"You think we summoned you all the way across Spain just to give you an undeserved promotion?" Nairn's voice was incredulous. "Even the army wouldn't be ridiculous enough to do that, and we've all got better things to do than dawdle around with half-brevet Colonels anyway. No." Nairn's grin returned. "Where there's a Brigadier General, Sharpe, there's always a brigade."

Sharpe could not believe his ears. He stared, stunned for a moment, at Nairn, then the words sank in and his eyes went wide as gun muzzles. Dear God! Dear, sweet God! A brigade! His own Brigade!

"Don't expect to keep it," Nairn said, seeing the elation on the Rifleman's face. "It's only a temporary command."

There was a hint of bitterness in his voice and Sharpe remembered that Nairn himself had never commanded a brigade despite his long-standing generalship.

"Who are they?" he heard himself ask, only half-registering the words.

"It's all here," Nairn handed him a sheaf of papers from the mess of documents on the coffee table. "Four battalions, the usual deal. And your orders, too."

"Orders?"

Nairn's grin faded a little.

"Your 'brigade' isn't a regular one. It's made up of battalions scraped together from God knows where. Hogan arranged it. I haven't the slightest idea how he did it, but he managed to squeeze battalions from all the different divisions and marched them here to form this temporary brigade."

"But what for?" Sharpe interrupted.

He sensed the conversation was heading towards its real purpose and wanted to know what it was.

Nairn pulled a new paper from the coffee table, cursing as the movement sent two others flying off the table. Sharpe caught them as Nairn smoothed the first paper over.

"There's a rumour the French are planning an attack on the Douro." he said. "It's only a divisionary assault a corps at best. A feint, but it's got the Peer worried like hell itself is at his door."

Sharpe frowned.

"Why?"

"We're planning something different this spring," Nairn said, his voice low. "I can't tell you what or how, but word is the Douro has something to do with it, so the French must not be allowed to reach it at all costs."

"Why me?" Sharpe asked. "You've got the whole Light Division at your disposal."

Nairn shook his head.

"If the Douro attack is a diversion, then the real attack will come from somewhere else, and there can only be one other place."

"The roads," Sharpe guessed.

Nairn nodded.

"A surprise attack might well succeed in crossing the Coa, even capturing Ciudad Rodrigo or Almeida if they move fast enough. And if they are attempting to do that, which is what we suspect, then we'll need every battalion available to stop them."

Sharpe realised what he was saying.

"I'll have to hold the Douro on my own," He already half-knew the answer.

Nairn shrugged.

"The Portugese are moving. We've told them about it. They might be able to send some reinforcements."

"How soon can they get here?"

"Damn snow is slowing everything down." Nairn said, waving a hand at the window. "Hopefully it'll slow the French as well, but all the same I'd say you'll have to hold for at least two days before they can get to you."

"Against a divisionary assault?"

"It's all we can do."

Sharpe shook his head.

"They won't serve! We'll be torn to pieces! It isn't enough."

"We can't spare anyone else!" Nairn said, sounding apologetic. "The whole of the Light Division is marching. The Peer wants us to guard the east. The rest of the army is days away, and even then they're being ordered towards Ciudad Rodrigo."

"There must be some troops you can give me!" Sharpe protested. "One company? Two? Christ, we'll be rolled over like a bloody barrel!"

Nairn sighed and picked up a paper. He stared hard at the contents, frowning, then sighed again as he threw it down.

"I've got two companies of the 60th Rifles. I'll attach them to your brigade, but that's it."

Sharpe knew two companies of rifles would make as much difference as two companies of toads, but nevertheless there was nothing he could do and reluctantly nodded before picking up his orders.

"When do we march?"

"Today," Nairn said. "The Light Division's marching tomorrow, and since we're going in opposite directions it's best you don't leave at the same time or there'll be bloody chaos and we'll all end up marching in the wrong directions. The day after tomorrow will be too late, so it'll have to be today." Nairn sounded gloomy. "And just when I was starting to settle down in this place, too. I'll send you your Riflemen this afternoon, Sharpe."

"Where am I going?" Sharpe asked.

Nairn reached across the table and loosened the drawstring of a heavy map. He unrolled it, the four corners curling around the edges of the map until he weighted them down, then pointed to a spot along the Douro.

"There," he said. "Town called Barca de Alva along the Douro. It's not beside the river itself, but very close."

"How close?"

"Several hundred feet?" Nairn guessed. "There's a bridge, though, so you can expect the Frogs to try and use it."

"Infantry won't hold a bridge against a divisionary assault," Sharpe said, shaking his head. "Their artillery will shred us like paper."

"Indeed they will," Nairn said. "Which is why I've attached a battery of artillery to your brigade. Company of dragoons, too. God knows, you'll need them."

"I'll need the rest of the bloody division," Sharpe growled. "Along with another two or three."

"I know, I know," Nairn said, his tone placatory. "We'll be marching to your aid as soon as we can."

"How about tomorrow?"

Nairn ignored Sharpe's last statement, turning towards a clock on the wall instead.

"Good God!" he said, sitting up in shock. "It's already four! I've spent half this bloody afternoon talking to you!"

More like half an hour, Sharpe thought. He doubted that Nairn was really concerned about the loss of time, but the surprise on his face did not look feigned and he genuinely seemed not to have realised it.

"Well, off you go, Sharpe," he said, standing up and collecting papers off the unruly pile on the table. "You'll find your brigade parading on the outskirts of the town, all ready for march. I've to be off too. If I don't get these papers in order the French will waltz straight into Lisbon and we'll all be sitting in a French prison by the new year."

He crossed to the door and opened it.

"I wish you the joy of the battle, Sharpe," he said gloomily.

And so Sharpe went to meet his brigade.


	2. Chapter 2: The Command

Chapter Two: The Command

The parade square echoed with the sound of boots on the cobbles. Sergeants and officers shouted orders as close to three thousand men marched steadily into the square, forming into four long lines along one side of the snow-lined parade ground.

Despite having seen such displays countless times before, Sharpe still felt a frission of excitement as the marching men paraded in front of him. This was his brigade, men he would command and take into battle against the French. He had told himself it would not be much different from commanding his battalion the South Essex, but the sight of the thousands of men still filled him with a heady feeling.

The four Colonels trotted their horses towards him, the sound of their hooves on the cobbles ringing through the quiet square. Sharpe stared at them as they approached, thinking how he should speak to them. Should he try to make the four men like him, or should he be the harsh disciplinarian they all expected him to be? He tempted himself with the idea that if he was friendly and approachable they would submit to his command more willingly, but he suspected some of them would not like being commanded by a man who had come up from the ranks and knew he would have to be harsh.

They four of them stopped a pace from him. On Sharpe's left was Lieutenant Colonel Gough, commander of the 87th regiment of the line, an Irish battalion. Next to him was Lieutenant Colonel Kinney, a tall, broad man who commanded a battalion of Fusilers. On his left was Lieutenant Colonel Leroy of the South Essex, grinning at Sharpe over the inevitable cheroot stuck between his lips, and on the right was Lieutenant Colonel Chalmers, a mild-looking Scotsman who commanded the 74th, a highland battalion. All four regiments were veterans of the Peninsula War, immune to French drums, French cheers and just about anything else the French could throw at them.

"Pleasure to serve under you, Sharpe," Kinney spoke first, nodding warmly at the green-jacketed Rifleman.

Sharpe smiled briefly as the other three Colonels introduced themselves, shaking their preoffered hands.

"Brigade ready for inspection, sir." Leroy said after they had finished, sounding amused.

The other officers looked nervous, and no wonder. Few men in the army had not heard of Sharpe's reputation, and all three Colonels were in awe of the silent, dark-haired man who stood before them. This was the man who had come up from the ranks, the man who had captured a French eagle at Talavera and who looked as if he did it every day before breakfast was served.

"Stand the men at ease, gentlemen," Sharpe said, his tone mild.

The Colonels nodded, and Gough turned his horse around to face the lines of men.

"Brigade!" he bellowed across the square. "At...ease!"

There was a faint whispering sound as the men relaxed.

"Do you know our orders?" Sharpe asked.

"We march to Barca de Alva, sir," Kinney said. "And hope the Froggies haven't gotten there first."

"Do you know when we march?"

"This afternoon, sir." Gough answered.

"What's your strength?"

"Seven hundred, sir," Chalmers, who had been sitting quietly on his horse, answered first.

"About the same," Leroy said.

The other two Colonels gave similar answers.

"Ammunition and rations?"

"Double ammunition, sir. And rations for a whole week." Gough answered for all of them. "On ox carts by the road."

Sharpe nodded his assent, thoroughly pleased with the preparations Hogan had made for him. Most battalions were usually around half strength due to the casualties they picked up in battles, but somehow the Irish Major had managed to organise drafts of reinforcements for these four regiments to get them up to strength. The new men might not have the skill and experience as the battle-hardened veterans, but they would learn quickly and the extra firepower would bolster the fighting strength of the regiments. With luck, Sharpe thought, they might even get to the town before the French. He hitched up his rifle and told the Colonels to organise the march.

The two companies of Riflemen met them on the road to Barca de Alva, arriving just as the brigade was about to begin their march. Sharpe, striding back towards the leading battalion from the rear where he had been inspecting the ox carts of ammunition, hurried towards the front to meet them.

The two Captains saluted as he came near, slamming to attention as Sharpe drew abreast of them.

"Captain Frederickson, sir." the first one said.

The Rifle Captain looked positively villainous. His left eye was gone, a black leather eyepatch covering the socket where the eyeball had used to be. Most of his left ear was gone, along with his two front teeth that had been replaced by ill-made fakes. The wounds had all been taken on the battlefield.

The second captain, shorter and burlier, smiled as he saluted.

"Captain Cross, sir."

"What are you smiling about, Captain?"

"Sir?" Cross looked uncertain for a moment. His smile faded.

"Nothing, sir."

"What's your state?" Sharpe asked them.

"Seventy-nine men, sir." Frederickson spoke first.

"Ammunition?" Sharpe interrupted before the one-eyed Captain could go into specifics.

"Double, sir. Hundred and sixty rounds."

Sharpe turned to Cross.

"Captain?"

"Seventy-six, sir. Double ammunition."

"Good," Sharpe said. "You know where we're going?"

"Barca de Alva, sir," Cross replied.

"Your companies will march at the head of my brigade, Captains, behind the cavalry vanguard."

The two men nodded.

"Very good, sir." Cross said.

Sharpe saw him grimace as he turned away. He shook his head, amused, then shouted at the men to pick up their muskets.

It was going to be a long march.

They marched the rest of the afternoon before bivouacking in a field several hours after dusk. The men were tired. Most of them had marched to Frenada all the way from the Coa and had been looking forward to a warm billet inside the town more than anything else, but instead they had been ordered to march the rest of the day and they cursed the dark-haired Rifleman as they trudged through the cold and dust north and east towards Barca de Alva.

Twenty miles to the northeast, the first French battalions descended on the Gateway of God, screaming their war cries as they charged into the castle with bayonet-tipped muskets. The small Spanish garrison, outnumbered a hundred to one, was quickly and efficiently massacred, then the slaughter spread to the village where the French drove the inhabitants out, killing men who tried to resist and grabbing women and pulling them to the ground. Some women, those too old or diseased, were shoved out of the way, or killed by the long bayonets. Small children were trampled underfoot, their cries mingling with the women's screams as the French battalions continued their advance.

The French General, mounted on a fine black horse, calmly watched as his soldiers destroyed the village of Adrados. He nodded in approval as his aides galloped back to him with reports that the pass had been taken, then turned and beckoned to the waiting officers. The infantry battalions marched through the bloodstained streets and past the crumbling castle, grinning as French soldiers waved at them from the ancient ramparts. Half a mile behind them, the first of the supply carts lurched into motion as the French Corps began the long march through the pass and down into Portugal. The invasion had begun.


	3. Chapter 3: The Arrival

Chapter Three: The Arrival

Snow began to fall as the mixed British force neared Barca de Alva. The dull tramp of thousands of feet was somewhat muffled by the layer of snow on the white-lined road, the jingling of the mounted officers' curb chains sharper above the muted thunder of the redcoats' march.

They marched through friendly territory, yet many of the men glanced left and right as if they feared a sudden attack. Officers squinted into the distance, their experienced eyes seeking the clouds of dust and flashes of light that were the telltale signs of an enemy force. They found no such signs, but there was a hostility in the air and every man was alert as they marched through the countryside.

Sharpe felt the tension as well as any of the men. Every instinct told him that the French were close, but the cavalry scouts continually reported nothing as his force drew ever closer to Barca de Alva.

Finally, two of his furthest-flung scouts came galloping back with the news that the town was in sight. The cavalry Captain, a cheerful middle-aged man named Derritt, reported the sighting and requested to take his company into the town.

"That way, we'll definitely be informed when the French do arrive," he said.

Sharpe agreed and the four squadrons of Derritt's cavalry company pulled together, then trotted up the road in lines of ten. The redcoats saw them leave and the long line of companies tautened subtly, shrinking every so slightly as the ranks and files drew closer to the comrades around them. Veterans as they were, no man wanted to feel alone and the flurry of activity was an unmistakable of the battle to come.

Sharpe was trembling with apprehension. If the French had reached the town before him, or even the bridge, then he would be marching his men straight to their deaths. They would never be able to retake the town if the French had garrisoned it, let alone assault the bridge. Sharpe imagined the seven-foot twelve pounders lined wheel-to-wheel, the heavy iron cannonballs blasting across the Douro to grind his small force into bloody oblivion. Then, he thought, when his battalions had marched close enough, they would switch to canister and each shot would throw a dozen men back in an explosion of metal and slaughter. God, they must reach first! He twisted around to order the men to double their pace, but just then there was a shout from ahead and he looked back to see a single rider galloping back towards him. Now he would know, he thought. He found himself jittery with tension.

"The French are in sight, sir!" the rider pulled his horse to a flashy stop as he delivered the news.

Sharpe's heart sank.

"Where?" he managed to ask. "In the town?"

"No, sir," the cavalryman said. "On the opposite side of the river. They've just appeared on the horizon."

Sharpe's mind raced. The French had not reached the town. There was still time to stop them!

"How many?"

"A single battalion. Skirmishers, looks like."

"Guns? Cavalry?"

"Captain didn't see any."

Sharpe knew they could not be far behind. No General advanced infantry too far ahead of the main force. He turned around.

"Captain Frederickson! Captain Cross!"

Frederickson's head snapped up, his one eye gleaming in anticipation. Cross, slower but no less alert, blinked at Sharpe.

"Sir?"

"Take your companies ahead of the town. There's a battalion of Voltigeurs approaching the bridge and I want you to hold them off."

"Sir!" Frederickson barked the reply, then turned to his men. "Double time!"

The company broke into a jog.

"A battalion, sir?" Cross said, wondering if he had misheard.

"A bloody battalion! Now go! Move!" Sharpe was half-frantic with adrenaline. The French must not reach the town!

"Yes, sir." Cross saluted, then ordered his company after Frederickson.

"Tell Captain Derritt to stay out of sight," Sharpe turned back to the cavalry trooper. "And that our skirmishers are coming."

The trooper, understanding the urgency of the situation, threw a hasty salute as he wrenched his horse around and galloped after the two Rifle acompanies.

Sharpe spun around again.

"Gough!"

The Irish Colonel, whose battalion was first in the marching order and thus the most advanced of the four regiments in the brigade, spurred forward.

"Sir?" he said politely.

"My compliments," Sharpe remembered his formalities at the last moment. "And would you advance your Light Company north of the town? There's a battalion of Voltigeurs north of the bridge and I need them stopped."

Gough grinned.

"Consider it done."

He turned around to give the order.

"And send someone to tell the rest of the brigade to do the same!" Sharpe shouted after him.

"Will do!" Gough called over his shoulder, forgetting to add 'sir' in his excitement.

A Lieutenant was sent down the column to relay the order, then the four light companies broke into double time, their pouches and equipment flapping as they jogged off the road to overtake the rest of the slower companies. Sharpe went with them, clumsily mounting the horse that Nairn had insisted on lending him. He hated horses, preferring to march rather than ride, but was now grateful for the added speed it gave him. He settled awkwardly into the saddle, hooked his feet into the stirrups, and broke into a canter after the running companies.

He arrived at Barca de Alva alone, galloping ahead of Frederickson's company to ride into the town first. Derritt would make sure he would not be marching his men into a trap, but he wanted to see the enemy himself to gauge their effectiveness.

He rode straight through the town without stopping, his horse breathing heavily as houses and buildings shot past in a blur. Civilians turned and stared as he clattered through the streets, many of them barring their houses and pulling shutters over the windows. British troops had never come into Barca de Alva, and the presence of this lone Rifleman, combined with the frenetic pace at which he rode, suggested that that record was about to change.

Between the town and the bridge was a bare, grassy space the length and width of two football fields. That space was now dusted in a fine layer of snow, beyond which the leading companies of the French battalion were stepping onto the bridge. Sharpe, seeing his chance to defend the bridge gone, swore.

The French marched in four, tight ranks with bayonets fixed. Sharpe wondered if their muskets were loaded, then supposed they were as the battalion began to spread into skirmish order once they had crossed the bridge. Sharpe guessed that the French commander was expecting a garrison force in the town and was taking no chances.

The two companies of Riflemen emerged out of the northern road from the town, breathing heavily after their long run. Frederickson and Cross took one look at the advancing French battalion and ordered their men into a skirmish line.

Sharpe himself had been a skirmisher for much of his life and watched the deploying forces with a professional eye. The job of the Riflemen was simple enough. Their Baker Rifles could kill at three hundred yards, when the French muskets were hopelessly inaccurate at anything beyond fifty. As long as they could maintain their distance from the Voltigeurs they held the advantage, but to retreat was to yield the town to the French, while if they held their position they would be easy meat for the long French bayonets.

The Voltigeurs instinctively checked as they saw the Riflemen come out of the town they had been told was undefended. They had been expecting barrels of wine and a warm house, and instead were faced with a line of enemy that could kill at three hundred yards.

" _En avant! En avant!"_ The French Colonel, seeing how hugely his force outnumbered the Riflemen, shouted at his men to advance.

"Fire!" the Captains called as the Voltigeurs marched into range.

A crackling sound echoed through the air as the Greenjackets opened fire. The first of the French were flung backwards by the force of the spinning bullets, others diving to the ground in an attempt to evade the enemys' fire. The French Colonel, miraculously untouched by the Riflemen's volley, roared at his men to run forward and overwhelm the British with the threat of their bayonets.

The four companies of light infantry arrived and immediately deployed into skirmish order to support the outnumbered Riflemen. Sharpe, having dismounted from his horse, saw the French run into musket range and shouted for the redcoats to make ready.

"Fire!"

The muskets crashed flame and smoke. More Voltigeurs went down, the wounded filling the air with their screams. The rifles fired again and more Frenchmen collapsed to water the field with their dark blood.

The surviving Frenchmen knelt on the snow and dragged back their flints, but before they could fire a trumpet filled the air and Derritt's cavalry appeared around the far edge of the town, galloping towards the enemy with their long swords drawn.

"Cavalry!"

"Form square!"

It was much too late. The dragoons swept across the field, yelling and whooping like fox hunters chasing a quarry. The Voltigeurs, seeing death in the two lines of drawn swords, broke and fled towards the bridge.

Derritt had timed the charge to perfection. He had let the enemy come within a musket shot of the town, then unleashed his men just before the French could fire their killing volley. As a result the enemy were too close to avoid the charge and were now butchered as they had come so close to slaughtering the skirmishers.

Men screamed as they were ridden down. Swords slashed and came back red. A Frenchman lunged with his bayonet, missed, and a dragoon sliced his face into bloody ruin, shouting incoherently as the man fell backwards.

Some Frenchmen managed to reach the bridge where they sprinted across as if the devil himself was on their heels. Others stripped off their weapons and pouches and threw themselves into the river, risking the freezing current to escape the threat of the long bloodied swords.

The skirmishers cheered as the Voltigeurs were driven away. Captain Derritt, his sword and breeches splattered with blood, reined in beside Sharpe and gave a perfunctory salute.

"Got them, sir! Got them!" The middle-aged man was grinning happily.

"Good work, Derritt," Sharpe said. "Bloody well done."

The French battalion was destroyed. A few men had managed to run across the bridge where they stopped at the far end and barred the way with muskets and bayonets. A few more had survived the raging current and freezing waters of the Douro, shivering like dogs as they pulled themselves onto the opposite bank, but the vast majority of the Frenchmen lay dead or wounded on the snow-dusted field, slashed and stabbed into ruin by the dragoons' long straight swords. Some of them screamed foully, but most of them were silent, the field slowly turning dark below them as their bodies cooled on the snow.

Sharpe filled his voice to order his men forward, but before he could give the command a series of flashes on the far bank caught his eye. There were shouts as Derritt's troopers spotted the movement, then Derritt swore as he sheathed his sword.

More French infantry had appeared over the horizon. An entire brigade, judging from the sheer size of the approaching force. These Frenchmen were in four long lines that seemed to stretch the length of the horizon, and the sun reflected off their thousands of bayonets as they marched forward. Interspersed among the ranks of Frenchmen were horses, riderless horses, and Sharpe knew all too well what they meant.

"Field guns." Derritt spat onto the ground.

Twelve pounders. The seven-foot artillery, the kings of the battlefield that could cover the length of the bridge and smash any assault across the river into bloody oblivion. Sharpe swore.

There would be no easy rout now, no guarding the bridge against the French. Now Sharpe would have to defend the town against an onslaught of Frenchmen, and he knew with a terrible certainity that many men in his brigade would be seeing their last winter. The battle for Barca de Alva was about to begin.


	4. Chapter 4: The First Assault

Chapter Four: The First Assault

The French General arrived with his first brigade of infantry. He reined in fifty paces ahead of the bridge, swearing as he saw the hundreds of dead Voltigeurs sprawled on the other side of the river. All chance of a swift advance into Portugal had been destroyed by the presence of these British who had mercilessly decimated the fine battalion of Frenchmen that had been his vanguard. He should have sent cavalry instead of a skirmisher battalion, but some fool had delivered the wrong orders and the regiment of hussars had ridden a half-dozen miles in the opposite direction before the General had realised the mistake. He had thought of waiting for them to arrive, but had deemed the need for speed above safety and now the Voltigeurs had paid the price for his decision.

The one thing the General worried about now was the number of enemy troops in the town. The speed of his advance was crucial to its success. The whole operation depended on marching deep into Allied territory before the British and Portugese forces could respond. His first thought was to order an all-out assault on the town, but his instinct for caution had made him pause. If the enemy were few enough he could easily overrun them with a full brigade assault, thus maintaining the momentum of the advance, but if the town proved to be heavily garrisoned he would be committing his men to slaughter like Voltigeurs before them. He had seen the company of cavalry reforming after their charge, and he had glimpsed companies of redcoats and Riflemen marching into the town, but even with the aid of his telescope he could not tell how many men the enemy had. Were these men all that were garrisoning the town, or were they part of a larger force that he had not seen?

Colonel L'hiver, the commander of the Voltigeur battalion, had reported no more than five hundred men in the enemy force. The French officer had wept as he spoke, devastated by the loss of his men and suffering terribly from two sword wounds, but he had managed to confirm that there were two companies of Riflemen, along with close to three hundred redcoat skirmishers.

"But what if there are more?" the General asked.

"If they had more, sir," an aide replied. "They would have used them."

"True," the General acknowledged.

"And we know they weren't expecting us."

"True."

He convinced himself that his worries were false. So what if the British had managed to get troops into Barca de Alva? His own force outnumbered them no less than eight to one, and even if there were more troops hidden in the town, how many could there be? A thousand? Two? In his brigade he had four thousand men, and as many again would arrive within several hours to support his force.

The order was given to attack two hours later, several minutes after a regiment of lancers had reached the bridge. They would make sure the damned cavalry stayed out of the way while his infantry marched across the vulnerable stretch of field between the bridge and the town.

The French formed into a broad column of ten ranks. Four hundred men marched in each rank. The General reckoned the British would not have enough men to defend the whole town, so he would envelop them in a crescent of bayonets and the two wings could swing in to surround the enemy in the front. His heart thudded with grim anticipation as the drums sounded and the massive column started forward. A single push to shatter the rag-taggle force of British that opposed him, and then the advance would sweep into Portugal and send the Allied forces into a panic. He imagined half-formed enemy battalions being smashed apart by the massive French columns, and his heart leapt as he fantasised they might even capture a few colours. Marshal Massena would promote him for sure, then. No man could deny promotion to a General who had captured enemy colours.

In Barca de Alva Brigadier General Sharpe rested his telescope on a window frame, training it on the advancing column that was slowly threading its way across the bridge. He watched as the regiment of lancers form up on either side of the town, then collapsed the telescope and ran down the stairs.

He had not been idle in the two hours it had taken the French to organise their attack. The house was crowded with redcoats and Riflemen that would be the first to engage the enemy. Frederickson and Cross, along with the four light companies, would garrison the front of the town. Immediately behind them were mixed forces of more redcoats and grenadier companies of the four battalions. Sharpe knew the attack would surge into the town like a torrent of water, so he would barricade every door and drown the streets in musket fire and grenades. The rest of his brigade was positioned inside every house in the town, apart for eight companies, two from each battalion, that would be held in the town centre as his reserve to reinforce whichever part of the defences that needed help the most. He ducked out into the street, cursing as his rifle caught on the doorframe and unbalanced him. Three men of the Fusilers' light company hurried past him, each one carrying two wooden chairs stacked on top of each other. In the opposite house, two Riflemen swore as they manhandled a heavy table out through the doorway. The men were carrying the furniture to the end of the street that opened up out of the town where they were making a makeshift barricade to stall the French advance. More Riflemen were standing beside the half-completed barricade, loading their rifles with the finely-mealed gunpowder from their horns. Their first volleys would be murderously precise, then the leather patches and fine powder that gave the rifles their lethal accuracy would be forgotten as every man sacrificed care for speed.

Sharpe wondered how Patrick Harper was doing. The big Irishman would be in the houses facing the left half of the column, along with the rest of the South Essex light company. Harper would probably be whistling as he stacked furniture onto the barricades, Sharpe thought, exchanging jokes with the other South Essex men and Frederickson's Riflemen who shared the same houses with them. He would probably have heard of Sharpe's promotion, and Sharpe knew Harper would be as approving as the rest of the South Essex of his new command.

He turned to the other end of the street where two dozen Ensigns mounted on horses waited for him. The Ensigns were from the the four battalions of his brigade, and he had designated them to be his messengers to relay his orders through the town. They were all sensible boys, and would probably grow up to become decent officers, provided they were not first spitted on a French bayonet from this massive force that was about to assault them.

He selected two from the 87th and told them to inform the light companies and Riflemen to fall back as they wished, trusting the experienced Captains to judge the moment for themselves. He sent two more to order four of his reserve companies to form four ranks in the streets close behind the barricades. They would cover the retreat of the light men when the French broke through.

"And make sure the doors are barricaded!" he called after them, then turned to another.

"My compliments to Captain Derritt," he said. "And he is not to engage the enemy lancers. Tell him to guard the artillery."

His battery of four nine-pounders and two five-and-a-half inch howitzers had arrived and he would deploy them on the left of the town to rake the approaching column from the side.

"The artillery are free to open fire," he said to a sixth Ensign.

The boy, scarcely out of his childhood, nodded nervously at the tall, scarred General, then turned his horse and galloped up the streets.

Sharpe's stomach churned with anticipation as he waited. Had he thought of everything? His hand gripped and re-gripped his sword hilt, his palm slippery under the brass wire. He wiped it on the side of his overalls, then his heart skipped a beat as a single sound rose above all else. The drums started, the massive, irresistable drums that had driven the French columns from Paris to Moscow, the drums that would now drive this winter assault against Barca de Alva in the hope of smashing its defences and clearing the way into Portugal. The drums intensified, the French column lurched into motion, and the assault began.

Captain Plummer, the man in charge of Sharpe's artillery, wheeled his guns forward as soon as the drums began. He fished a battered telescope out of his pocket and stared hard at the column for a few moments, then grunted in satisfaction and collapsed the glass.

"Unlimber here!" he called to his gunners, spurring ahead to mark the spot where the guns would begin their firing. "Don't know why the bloody French insist on using damned columns," he grumbled to himself. "No bloody use, so they are."

"Indeed," Captain Derritt had walked his horse towards Plummer and offered him a cigar as they stared at the enemy formation. "Not much good against cavalry, either. In fact, if not for those lancers, I'd have a good mind to fillet them."

Plummer gave a short bark of laughter.

"We'll send them packing in a few moments! The daft buggers don't even know we're here!"

The French lancers, who were advancing three hundred yards away parallel to the infantry's march, seemed to have taken no notice of the impending threat.

"Here!" Plummer waved at the ground beside him, shouting to his men. "Over here!"

The four nine-pounders deployed in a line just beside the edge of the town, while the two howitzers unlimbered a little distance behind them.

"Double shot!" Plummer ordered. "Let's give these bastards a good winter hammering!"

The defenders in the town cheered as the first nine-pounder opened fire, the canister shot throwing back a dozen lancers like toy soldiers swept apart by a petulant child. The iron cannonball slashed through the double line of horses in a spray of blood, then bounced once before slaughtering a score of men in the heart of the French column. The lancers froze for a moment, then wheeled to face the half-dozen guns, but Derritt's troop spurred forward, swords raised, and the lancers instinctively checked before galloping out of range just as the other cannons opened fire on the massive French column. Roundshot seared into the enemy ranks. Case shot cracked apart to send showers of death into the heart of the column, but there was too few artillery to stop the French advance. The column seemed to quiver with each impact it took, but when the gunners finished reloading the column had closed ranks and marched on almost as if no men had died.

The Riflemen in the town opened fire. The crackling sound of their volley echoed through the air as men in the front ranks of the column were hit by the spinning bullets, twisting around suddenly as if they had been shoved. The files rippled as men stepped past the fallen, but like the guns before them there were not enough Rifles to stop the column.

A second artillery salvo slashed into the massed ranks, a third, then the French let out a massive cheer as they were released into the charge, a dark tide of men surging towards the town like a tsunami wave.

"Fire!" the shout rang out from Barca de Alva.

The town exploded with musket smoke. The massive volley crashed down onto the French attack, hurling men backwards like rag dolls. Most of the leading Frenchmen were battered down by the hail of musket balls, then a second wave of gunfire slashed out from the town as every musket that had fired was replaced by another loaded weapon. Every house, wall and rooftop along the perimeter of the town and major streets had been garrisoned. Men had been crammed into the houses and rooms, so that every loophole and firing position was manned by two or three men.

The crackling of the musket fire was incessant, drowning the roar from Plummer's guns as they fired one last time. The French were firing back, adding to the cacophony of musket discharges, but the redcoats were safe behind walls and windows so most of the musket balls smacked harmlessly into masonry.

The road from the bridge led to a broad, wide street that ran straight into the middle of Barca de Alva. The street had been blocked with furniture stolen from the nearby houses that was piled higher than a man's head, but the sheer weight of the French assault was causing the barricade to scrape backwards. The redcoats fired through and over the barricade, but the French were doing the same and more than a few British had slumped onto the ground, their blood soaking into the snow to stain it a dark red. Their captain ordered a half-dozen men to pile the bodies in a line across the street which he hoped would trip the French.

More redcoats fell back, their bodies slumping against the barricade, then the officer ordered the men away from the collapsing defence.

"Back!" he shouted. "Back!"

A half-company of men from the 87th stood in two ranks halfway down the street. They opened files to let the retreating skirmishers through, then closed up as the barricade began to shudder like a woman in labour.

"Load!" the skirmisher captain ordered his men.

"Fix bayonets!" a young lieutenant commanding the half-company said. "Kneel!"

His men obediently knelt and the skirmishers behind them closed into another two ranks so that the street was now barred by a four-rank line that bristled with bayonets.

"Steady, lads, steady," the lieutenant said, drawing a pistol from his belt and thumbing back the cock.

The barricade fell with a crash that made the lieutenant wince, then there was a cheer as the French poured into the street.

"Wait, boys, wait!" the captain shouted.

Redcoats appeared in the windows and balconies above. They levelled their muskets, then fired just as the leading Frenchmen burst through the shattered remains of the barricade.

Smoke blotted the street. Frenchmen screamed as the bullets tore into the advancing mass. Some were hit by the musket fire, some tripped on the pile of bodies, but others scrambled through the remains of the front ranks to come howling down the street.

More muskets fired from above, replacing the men who had already fired. The redcoats thrust their weapons at the street and pulled the triggers without bothering to aim. The street was filled with powder smoke as bullets slashed left and right into the mass of French, yet still they came, howling like banshees, their bayonets on their muskets shining amidst the fog of powder smoke.

"Doors!" a French officers shouted. "Doors!"

The French pounded on the doors with their rifle butts, stabbed at it with their bayonets, even fired at them, but they had been blocked solid by furniture and the French might as well have been banging on stone for all the damage they did. Some of them fired blindly up at their attackers, but their assailants were hidden by the dense cloud of powder smoke and the bullets whizzed harmlessly past. Other Frenchmen stabbed blindly into windows at street level, but all the windows on the left suddenly crashed flame and smoke to fill the street with more bullets and death.

Still the French came on, staggering through the maelstrom of bullets and flames. The lieutentant waited for the first Frenchmen to stumble into view, then ordered his first rank to make ready.

"Fire!"

The volley whipped into the street to send more Frenchmen collapsing onto the cobbles, their white crossbelts dark and dripping.

"Second rank!" the captain shouted. "Fire!"

Another volley crashed out to pile a barrier of bodies on the street.

"Fire!" The third rank pulled their triggers as the first and second ranks reloaded frantically, skinning their knuckles on their bayonets as they rammed the bullets down.

All along the perimeter of the town the French cheered as they broke through barricades, the cheers turning to screams as the streets turned into deathtraps. The French General, watching with a telescope from across the river, saw the growing cloud of smoke and the crackling of musket fire and swore because he knew something had gone horribly wrong.

"Sir!"

Back in the main street, a private pointed frantically at an alley. The captain followed his gaze and saw, through the alley, a mix of greenjackets and redcoats retreating haphazardly up a side street. Their ragged retreat suggested the French were not far behind them and in a moment or two, his company might be cut off.

"Back!" he yelled at his men. "Back to the square!"

The company turned and ran towards the town centre, a few men stumbling with injuries. The windows and balconies exploded with fire behind them, covering their retreat as they fled towards safety.

More British forces had similarly retreated from the French assault, running into the town square where Brigadier-General Sharpe held the four companies of his reserve. The scattered companies formed ranks alongside the fresh men, hurriedly reloading as the sounds of the French advanced drew ever closer.

More men came out from the south of the town, reinforcing the force that would soon be hurled at the attackers. Scotsmen and Fusilers stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Irishmen and Englishmen, all readying themselves for the countercharge that would drive the French out of the town. Riflemen, some of them with bloodied bayonets, pushed into the ranks, charging their barrels with powder from their horns as they waited for their officers to give orders.

The French burst from the alleys and streets in a dozen dark streams of screaming men, skidding to a halt as they caught sight of the tightly-packed line of bayonets. For a few moments the two sides simply stared at each other, then the redcoats roared a challenge, howling at the dark-coated men who had driven their comrades from the north of the town.

"Forward! Forward! Forward!" a French Colonel shouted. " _Vive l'Empereur!_ "

"Front rank! Make ready!" Sharpe cried.

Officers and sergeants echoed the order and the entire mass of French twitched as they realised what was about to happen.

"Charge!" the French Colonel ordered.

The French surged forward, screaming to cover their fear. The redcoats watched them come, waited, then, at last, the order came.

"Fire!"

The muskets crashed flame and smoke. The front ranks of the French jerked backwards as the massive volley struck home. Other French stumbled over the bodies of the dead and dying, but more redcoats appeared in windows and balconies facing the town square, fresh men who had been posted to guard against such a charge and now levelled their muskets at the unsuspecting enemy.

"Fire!" the order rang out from one of the houses.

The houses and balconies erupted with smoke. Hundreds of muskets flamed as the massive fusillade crashed into the attacking horde. Frenchmen went down, screaming in terror as bullets hissed and cracked all around them. Some were unwounded, tripping over their comrades, but were trampled in the confusion and died as boots thudded into their heads and spines.

"Fire!" the redcoat line volleyed again, cutting the French down in a swath of death.

The French charge halted in the face of the relentless musketry. To their front was the British line, a bayonet-tipped clockwork machine that was spitting out eight volleys a minute. More redcoats were deploying to the left and right of the line, reinforcements coming out of the houses and alleys to add their fire to the beleaguered enemy, and on all four sides muskets and rifles cracked from the rooftops and balconies as the battalions poured their murderous fire down.

The French brigade could not advance into the blistering volleys, nor could they retreat because their comrades were pressing up from the rear, they could only stand stock still and be mauled by the relentless fire.

In a house on the streets, Colonel Thomas Leroy heard the sudden explosion of musket fire and grinned. He pushed his way to a window, waited for the redcoat in front of him to fire, then cupped his hands and leaned into the street.

"Grenades!" he called. "Toss grenades!"

In the houses to the north, where Sharpe knew the attack would strike first, he had stationed the grenadiers from his four battalions. Each man was six feet tall, armed with the black iron grenades with long fuses. They stepped to the windows and balconies as the order rang out, then lit the deadly weapons and tossed them into the streets.

The French attack halted then as the first grenades bounced onto the cobbles, then exploded in an eruption of flame and smoke Men screamed as they were flensed by the metal fragments. Some managed to extiguish the grenades, knocking the fuses from the metal balls before they could explode, but more grenades dropped from above, more explosions filled the streets with shrapnel and death and suddenly the French were running, all thought forgotten except to escape this charnel house of flame and death. A few officers shouted orders, but most saw that the rout could not be controlled and joined the mass of panicked troops in an attempt to get away before the redcoats came out with swords and bayonets.

In the town square the French ranks buckled as if a great pressure had been removed, streaming back through the streets they had come from to escape the devastating musketry. Brigadier General Sharpe, who had climbed the bell tower of a chapel in the centre of the town to judge the progress of the fighting, saw the Frenchmen melting into the streets and decided it was time for the charge.

"Forward!" he bellowed.

The British gave a great cheer as they started across the square, slowly at first, then faster and faster, then they slammed into the mass of enemy and the killing resumed. Musket flames seared into bodies. Bayonets scythed forward and came back red. Frenchmen fell and were immediately trampled by the press of men.

Like a last exhausted wave that had failed to breach a sea wall, the defeated French flowed out of the town, pursued by the vengeful redcoats with bloodstained faces and bayonets as red as their jackets.

Eventually the British stopped their pursuit, checked by the piles of corpses and terrified men. Some of the French were taken prisoner, but most streamed out of the town towards the bridge, their retreat guarded by the two companies of lancers that had watched helplessly as the attack had first been stopped, then destroyed. The redcoats in the northern houses opened fire again as the defeated enemy streamed into their line of fire, adding to the sprawl of bodies that cooled in the snow. Plummer's guns, who had pounded the right company of lancers throughout the whole attack, levelled their barrels and blasted roundshot across the mass of French. The howitzers lobbed case shot onto the press of men clustered around the head of the bridge, but then a dozen French twelve-pounders across the river opened fire and the iron balls scythed through Derritt's company of horsemen, raging all around the battery of guns. Two gunners were struck down in gouts of blood, then Plummer shouted at his men to retreat. The guns were latched onto their limbers and the horse teams galloped away from the artillery fire that rained down on them. The lancers gave a cheer as their tormentors were driven away, then withdrew over the bridge, covering the infantry's retreat.

Across the Douro, the French brigade was being reorganised, parading beside the guns as officers tallied the dead. Close to four thousand men had attacked Barca de Alva. Close to two thousand of them were dead or prisoners. The exhausted men threw their muskets down and dropped to the ground, some of them shaking at the sheer horror of what they had gone through in the streets.

The French General looked at his defeated men and swore at the town that was wreathed in smoke. He saw the British coming out of the town to plunder the dead, flashes of fire from windows as they fired at the retreating men, and knew there would be no easy way around this enemy force. He swore again as he turned away and began issuing orders. A brigade might have been turned, but within a day at most three more would arrive. The British, he promised, would pay dearly for the loss of his men.


	5. Chapter 5: The Night

Chapter Five: The Night

A truce was called for the rest of the day. The French were allowed into the town to retrieve their wounded and bury their dead. A line of ox carts moved to and fro across the bridge, ferrying wounded men back to their camp where the surgeons waited with their saws and probes. Some Frenchmen were well enough to walk, but most lay motionless in the streets washed with their blood. Many of the rescuers were too late.

Captain Peter d'Alembord found Sharpe sitting at a table the town square with a dozen officers, eating lunch as he planned their next move. All around them the air was filled with moans and screams as wounded Frenchmen were dragged out of the town to the waiting carts.

"Peter," Sharpe greeted him cheerfully. "Join us!" He gestured to the table.

d'Alembord shook his head.

"Got my own lunch, sir," he said. "Was just going to give Colonel Leroy the butcher's bill." He held up the piece of paper.

"Bad?" Sharpe asked.

He did not think the South Essex had suffered many casualties. They had all been safe in the houses, protected by their own powder smoke as they rained death onto the French in the streets.

"Dozen dead and twenty others injured," d'Alembord replied. "Not much."

"About the same for the rest," Colonel Leroy said, nodding. "Come the four corners of the world in arms, Captain, and we shall shock them."

"Indeed," The Rifle Captain, Frederickson, pounded his fist onto the table in agreement. "We'll fill the streets with damned Frenchmen and when we're out of ammunition we can throw furniture on them." He filled his mouth with bread and pork, his missing teeth showing as he grinned cheerfully.

"Aye," Sharpe was not as confident as the rest. "How's Harper?" he asked, trying to change the subject before the others could notice.

"Good," d'Alembord smiled. "The lads have all heard of your promotion. They're glad."

Colonel Gough chuckled.

"Your former battalion has been boasting to mine about how the greatest heroes come from the South Essex. They'll be saying they each took a French eagle next."

"You never know," Leroy wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "The way things are going, we'll all have a half-dozen eagles before spring arrives." He gestured at the piles of French corpses.

"They don't bring the eagles into the streets, though," Colonel Chalmers pointed out.

"Then we'll just have to go out and get them!" Colonel Kinney said, giving the cork of his wine bottle an emphatic tug as he spoke.

The cork came free with a satisfying pop and he took a long drink before handing it to Leroy.

"But we are expecting another assault?" Captain Cross, the most junior officer at the table, asked.

"Of course we are!" Gough said. "The bloody crapauds never know when they're beaten. They'll just keep attacking until the last of them drops into the river."

"That reminds me," Frederickson, who had been surprisingly quiet, now spoke. "I'd like permission to take some of my men down tonight, sir. A lad of mine says he can see a ford a few hundred yards down and I fancy he's right. We can give the frogs a nice midnight visit, sir, if you see what I mean."

Sharpe, ever uncomfortable with small talk, took the excuse to end the conversation.

"All right, Captain. I'll come with you to see if he's right." Sharpe pushed his chair back. "And we have a lot to do, so I think we should all return to our duties, gentlemen."

The officers all stood.

"May God grant us victory," Leroy said, raising the bottle of wine.

"And death to the French!" Kinney added, grabbing his own bottle.

"Amen to that," Gough held up his canteen of rum.

The rest of the officers joined in the toast and they all drank, and none of them saw the shadow that crossed Sharpe's face.

Frederickson had indeed found a ford. Sharpe, training his telescope on the half-frozen bank of the Douro, saw small rocks showing over the surface of the water several metres from either bank and guessed the river went only up to the waist at the deepest point.

"Midnight, sir?" Frederickson grinned at him, one of his false teeth slightly crooked.

Sharpe nodded.

"Midnight, Captain."

At midnight, Frederickson and Cross would lead their companies across the ford. The French army might outnumber them more than two to one, but he could still surprise them and this night he would show them how British Generals fought.

The French twelve-pounders started firing at dusk. They opened fire all at once, men swearing in shock as the clap of their discharge boomed into the evening's perfection. They concentrated their fire on the houses on the outermost layer of the town, houses that had battered the column with volleys of fire as it had approached. The heavy iron balls screamed across the river to smash walls and topple roofs. One by one the houses collapsed, each one prompting a cheer from the watching Frenchmen. A second brigade had arrived in the afternoon, and some of those men sat by the river and watched the town that had torn their comrades to pieces earlier that day. In the morning, both brigades would launch their assault, a massive, unstoppable attack that would sweep the British out of the town like a sandcastle in a flood.

The houses were, at least, empty. Sharpe had long known what the French would do and had ordered the occupants out of the houses as soon as he was sure of the cannons' target. The redcoats and riflemen now rested in buildings well inside the town, laughing as each shot sent a new pile of rubble cascading down into the streets.

"Let's see those idiots get in now," Colonel Leroy laughed, watching the cobbled streets slowly fill with debris.

"Daft buggers," Plummer snorted beside him. "They'll still climb through, though. Most of them rubble's fallen outwards."

"All the same I expect we'll give them a thing or two to worry about," Leroy said agreeably, producing a chicken leg from his sabretache.

He tore it into half and gave one piece to Plummer. The gunner Captain nodded his thanks, then bit into the meat as another wave of cannonballs smashed into the town.

The two companies of Riflemen crept their way out of the town at ten in the night. They went slowly, their rifles loaded with powder from their horns and their bayonets heavy in their scabbards where they would not reflect the moonlight. Flashes of light illuminated the landscape as the twelve-pounders hammered at the town, helping their way as they stumbled through the half-darkness towards the river. Their objective was to ambush the gunners on the other side of the bank, putting a stop to the bombardment and denying the French their cover fire as they attacked the next day.

"Stop here," Frederickson whispered, hearing the gentle hiss of the river ahead of him.

Another salvo lit the ground all around them, causing the men to swear and curse as they ducked down. The moment of light allowed Frederickson to see the river and, bent double, he ran over and cautiously took a step in. He winced as the freezing water soaked through his boot, then, ignoring the burning cold, took several more steps before halting.

"Come on," he called softly.

There was a small splashing sound as the first of his men stepped in, then the two companies of Riflemen were wading across the river, cursing as their boots slipped on the river bed.

"Christ, it's cold," one man complained, and was immediately hushed by two of his companions.

"Stay together," Cross whispered.

He was worried that the men would separate and end up losing their direction, or worse, fail to cross the river completely. Shallow as the ford was, they could still be swept away if they were not careful.

Frederickson arrived at the opposite bank first, counting the men as they passed him.

"All across," Cross, the last man, said softly as Frederickson grasped his shoulder.

"Good,"

Frederickson removed his eye patch and false teeth and stowed them into his pocket.

"Skirmish order towards the guns. Slowly."

The men cautiously spread out along the river bank, cringing at the voices of the French sentries not far ahead. Frederickson ordered the advance as soon as they were ready. A hundred and sixty men moved in two loose ranks, all senses on alert.

"Wait," Frederickson hissed suddenly.

He waved the small force down.

A pair of French sentries appeared out of the gloom, laughing and talking as they walked towards the river. Frederickson cursed silently as they stopped no more than ten paces from his group, squeezing his eye shut in frustration as they unbuttoned their breeches and began pissing into the water. If the guns fired now, the men could easily spot them and the ambush would be ruined.

The Riflemen froze, watching the pair of men as they swayed slightly in the fridgid winter air. Frederickson held his breath as they buttoned their breeches and turned towards him, then let out a sigh as they turned around and headed back the way they came.

And just then the guns fired.

A burst of light flared upwards from somewhere beyond them. The two Frenchmen, startled by the sudden noise, instinctively turned their heads away from the source.

And found Frederickson staring straight at them.

For a moment the two sides gaped silently at each other, then the men opened their mouths to shout.

Frederickson, along with a half-dozen of his men, sprang at them.

The noise of the ensuing scuffle was drowned out by the thunder of the guns. The first Frenchman flailed as Frederickson's weight knocked him to the ground. He yelled incoherently as the one-eyed officer tried to cover his mouth, then Frederickson butted him in the head and pressed a forearm over his throat. The man reached upwards to claw at Frederickson's face, but suddenly fell back with a soft sigh. Frederickson glanced to his right and saw that one of his Riflemen had jammed a bayonet into the side of the Frenchman's ribs, effectively silencing him.

The second Frenchman jumped away from three Riflemen that clawed at him. He dived out of the way, scrambled up, then raced up the bank, flailing with his arms as he shouted in French. He took three steps, then a bayonet thrown like a knife caught him in the back. The man collapsed, screaming, as a second bayonet sailed above his head. He groped blindly behind him, yelping as a stone hit his buttock, then a Rifleman clubbed him in the back of the head with a rifle butt and another stabbed a second bayonet into him. The Frenchman jerked once and was still. Frederickson sighed in relief, the two Riflemen grinned at him, and just then a half-dozen muskets banged and the two men pitched forward.

"Shit!"

A dozen Frenchmen materialised out of the darkness, bayonets gleaming on their muskets as they advanced down the river bank. Frederickson swore as the first of them levelled their muskets, did a split-second calculation and barked a single command to his men.

"Kill the gunners!"

There was no chance of surprising the enemy now. Their only hope of success was to catch the gunners before they could retreat and withdraw before the enemy could organise a counterattack.

Frederickson's men screamed as they charged up the bank, surprising a small group of Frenchmen that were hurrying towards them. Several of the French pulled their triggers, but in the confusion they had forgotten to load their muskets and the flints sparked on empty pans.

"Kill them!" Frederickson shouted. "Kill them!"

The Riflemen tore into the small group of French. A Frenchman flailed with his musket like a club, driving a Rifleman back, then the Frenchman was bayoneted and the greenjackets seemed to swarm over the blue-coated men. More Frenchmen appeared, half-awake and disorganised, but the bayonets were stabbed down, kicked free and the Riflemen charged on, sprinting towards the twelve-pounders and unprotected gunners. Behind them, there were shouts and rifle shots as Cross's men fought the French piquets.

The French gunners were in sight, but, instead of running, they were gaping in surprise at this enemy that had erupted out of the darkness like creatures from hell. They still stared as the Riflemen knelt, aimed, and then they were running for cover as the spinning bullets hurled them backwards, flicking out of the darkness and clanging off their massive gun barrels.

"Finish them!" Frederickson knew there was no time to wait for his men to reload. "Finish them!"

His Riflemen charged, howling like banshees. A few of the gunners, those furthest away from the Rifles' assault, managed to flee into the darkness, but most of them were too slow to escape and were bayoneted by the vengeful Riflemen.

"Bastards!" one man shouted as he stabbed a fallen gunner again and again. "Bastards!"

"Back!" Frederickson called.

He could hear orders in French and knew an enemy counterattack could not be far off.

Then, as his men were beginning to retreat, a massive cheer came from the direction of the French camp and flood of Frenchmen swarmed over the guns.

"Run!"

The enemy was too close for any kind of orderly withdrawal. Their only hope now was to run across the ford and hope the French lost their way in the darkness.

His men abandoned all discipline and fled, their aggression disappearing as soon as it began. Some of them were too close to avoid the French bayonets, but most managed to get clear before the French charge could strike home and ran down the bank towards the ford where the sound of rifle shots and clashes of metal showed that Cross still held the enemy.

They ran through the ranks of Cross's company, who stood in two ranks along the bank in front of the ford, their rifles bristling with the twenty-three inch sword-bayonets. The company opened files to let their comrades through, then levelled their rifles as more than a hundred Frenchmen charged towards them.

"Fire!"

The volley crashed into the attacking French. A dozen Frenchmen went down, twice as many tripping over the sprawling bodies. Cross's second rank fired to send more of the enemy pitching forward, then Cross shouted at his men to fall back over the ford.

The French formed a line at the edge of the river and poured a ragged volley at the retreating Riflemen. Men screamed as they fell, the river running red amidst the greenjackets' splashing boots. Some tried to help their wounded comrades, but Cross shouted at his men to leave them. The cries of his wounded sounded ever louder as the French surged across the ford, howling in anger as they sought revenge against this enemy that had appeared in the night.

Neither Cross nor Frederickson saw the ranks of men waiting along the far bank, but once they had splashed out of the river they heard the English voices shouting at them to get down, saw the moonlight glinting off hundreds of bayonets, and dropped to the ground.

"Fire!" The order was British.

The double line of muskets flamed in the moonlit darkness. The French coming across the river were completely unaware of the hidden ambush and were cut down by the volley. The four light companies of Sharpe's brigade had come out of the town to rescue the night attack, and they now roared their challenge as they charged with bayonets to drive the enemy back across the river.

"General Sharpe!" Cross called, glimpsing the tall Brigadier amidst the mass of redcoats.

"Get out of here!" Sharpe yelled back.

"Rifles!" Frederickson cupped his hands. "Fall back to the town!"

The two companies of Riflemen retreated towards the town in a disorganised mass, cursing and swearing as they stumbled on rocks and stones. Behind them, muskets splintered from either bank as Sharpe's companies fought the newly-woken French.

The two sides were evenly matched. The French were by far the larger force, but Sharpe's men were formed and ready whereas the French were milling about in a disorganised mess, many of them without loaded muskets. The French did not dare to advance into the fury of bullets coming from the opposite bank, instead they spread along the river's edge and returned the fire, the air above the Douro filling with filthy smoke as the night skirmish turned into a savage firefight.

The Riflemen were only two hundred feet from the town when they heard the unmistakable thunder of hooves behind them. Frederickson whirled around, ammunition and pouches flapping, and his heart dropped as he saw the French lancers appear out of the darkness.

"Cavalry!" The word was shouted in terror.

"Rally!" Cross called, his voice edged with panic. "Rally, rally rally!"

Frederickson knew there was no time to form a rally square. His men were too far from the town to have any hope of outrunning the lancers to safety, and were too close to the lancers and too scattered to form a rally square in time. They would be destroyed.

Just as the realisation hit him, a trumpet sounded from the town. A line of British dragoons materialised on the flank of the French charge, straight swords bared as they charged full-tilt into the mass of enemy horsemen. The lancers, one moment away from slaughtering the helpless Riflemen, were thrown into chaos by the galloping line of dragoons. Swords fell onto necks and laid open backs. Men screamed in pain. A lance cartwheeled above the churning mass.

"Go, go, go!" Derritt appeared out of the melee, his helmet sheeted with blood and grinning like a fiend. "Get to the town, Frederickson!"

His second rank of horsemen crashed into the fight and he spurred around to join them, raising his sword as he whooped with excitement.

"Rifles!" Frederickson bellowed. "Back to the town!"

Brought back from the brink of destruction yet again, the two companies headed south in headlong flight, yelling for the piquets to hold their fire as they approached the town. Frederickson shouted at his men to quieten down as they came within earshot, then a single voice called from the dark mass of houses.

"Captain Frederickson?"

"Colonel Gough!" Frederickson answered, hearing the Irish Colonel's distinctive accent.

"Glad to hear you're back safe!" Gough said. "Sounds like a right nasty battle out there."  
Frederickson shook his head.

"It's bloody chaos," he said. "Lancers, infantry, the whole lot."

"Go around the left and come inside," Gough said. "We'll see what damage you've wrought."

The Riflemen entered from the east of the town. More than a few of them were being supported by their comrades, bleeding from musket or bayonet wounds. The blacksmith sound of swords clashing on helmets faded into the distance as Derritt's cavalry broke the lancers. The musket fight still sounded loud in the night's silence, but Frederickson, climbing onto the roof of a house to join the four Colonels, saw that Sharpe's men were retreating. They went slowly, two companies providing cover as the other two marched. The lancers had vanished back over the bridge and Derritt's cavalry fell back together with the four companies of skirmishers, then, suddenly, a bugle sounded. Loud it rang, the sound seeming to linger in the air, and Plummer's guns answered the call, the nine-pounders crashing back on their trails as the iron balls screamed towards the bridge, ringing like bells as they struck the heavy stone. The gunners reloaded with frenetic speed, swabbing and ramming and pulling and grunting, and the guns roared into the night, again and again, pounding and pounding at the bridge for a full half hour before the first French guns were able to respond. Frederickson smiled in satisfaction as he saw that only five guns were firing, proof that he had killed more than half of the enemy gunners.

The first cannonballs bounced short, allowing Plummer's guns to fire a last salvo before he ordered them back. The French guns fired again, but by that time his horse teams were already well on their way around the right of the town, using the buildings in the town to shield themselves from the twelve-pounders' line of fire.

Gough clapped Frederickson on the back.

"Well done, Frederickson, bloody well done. Showed them how the Rifles fight, eh?"

"An excellent night's work, Captain," Chalmers said, nodding amiably at the one-eyed Captain.

Frederickson grinned at their praise, thoroughly pleased with himself, then peered through his telescope at the bridge as the dust around it settled. His body tensed as it came into view, then he jumped up, raising both fists into the air.

"Yes!" he yelled.

Leroy and Kinney thumped onto the balcony ledge in triumph.

The bridge had been damaged. It had not been destroyed, the French could still advance across it, but the weakened structure would not take the weight of the heavy guns and without them the French could not advance into Portugal. It would take days to repair the bridge, days in which a supporting force could arrive to bolster Barca de Alva's defences and end the French invasion, and all the while Sharpe's force would be there to harry and impede them. They had succeeded.

Which meant that the real trouble was about to begin.


	6. Chapter 6: The Ordeal

Chapter Six: The Ordeal

Dawn revealed the extent of damage Plummer's guns had wrought. The bridge still stood, its shadow stretching across the river as the sun rose, but the heavy stone masonry had been badly damaged by the nine-pounders' fire. Fragments of stone the size of dinner plates were scattered along the roadway, which was covered in a fine layer of white dust. More than a quarter of the bridge was missing in one particular place where the gunners had concentrated their fire, and some of the broad arches and columns that supported the bridge were broken.

The British cheered as they saw the state of the bridge, waving their muskets and rifles in the air, then, suddenly, the cheers died as thousands of French appeared on the horizon, the sunlight gleaming off their bayonets as they marched slowly forward. Sharpe, standing with his colonels on the roof of one of the northern houses, swore bitterly as the dark lines of men came into view.

"A whole bloody division," Gough growled.

Sharpe said nothing. He didn't need to. The full might of the French force was being paraded in the morning sun, spreading themselves in an arrogant panoply of overwhelming power. Within an hour, he knew, that force would be storming his defences and there would be nothing he could do about it.

"All men to their positions," he said, forcing calm into his voice. "Let's see what they throw at us."

The five men walked into the street, moving to take their stations in their assigned parts of the town. Sharpe himself climbed the bell tower in the centre of the town, attended by his ensign messengers and a half-dozen rifle sharpshooters. He listened to the usual small jokes that were made before the battle, gave the appropriate replies, then there was a massive cheer and the French came on.

The day's first attack on Barca de Alva was made by the same men who had attacked the day before. The brigade of infantry marched across the damaged bridge and through the ford, forming their columns just outside of the British rifles' deadly range. They assembled slowly, unhurriedly, until, without bothering to throw out a skirmish line, they surged forward with a roar of vengeance, a dark wave of Frenchmen flooding across the snow-lined field like an oil spill spreading across the ocean.

On the left, Derritt's company was pushed back by an entire brigade of French cavalry. He watched helplessly as the French charge swept past his troopers, then swore and wrenched his horse around. There would be no day of glory for him, not this day when he was outnumbered more than five to one. He led his men away from the town and hoped that the French would be content with driving him away from the battle.

The defenders perched among the rubble of the outermost houses had time for one hurried volley, then the French were scrambling up the piles of debris, forcing the defenders back into the streets beyond. The French gave a breathless cheer as they reached the summit of the rubble, then the muskets flamed from streets and roofs to send them rolling down the opposite side. More Frenchmen spilled over the crest of the rubble to come howling down towards the streets, but volleys of musket fire crashed out to send them falling to the ground, the piled bricks and wood slick with new blood. Still the French could not be denied. There were too few redcoats to hold them off for long and the French clambered up the rubble to the roofs beyond, then used their new lodgements to fire down on the British half-companies below. Yet more Frenchmen flooded down the piles of rubble to drive the embattled redcoats back, leaving several bodies sprawled on the cobbles.

The victorious French charged up the streets where the newly-reinforced half-companies greeted them with a deafening blast of musketry, then the grenades dropped from the houses above and the explosions began, throwing Frenchmen to the ground and eviscerating them with jagged iron shrapnel. Muskets fired from windows and balconies, drowning the streets in flame and lead, and thus it was the French's turn to retreat, stumbling blindly away from the maelstrom of explosions and death while beyond the flames and smoke the half-companies kept up their blistering hail of volley fire.

The French retreated from the streets, but they had not given up their assault. _Voltigeurs_ and redcoats traded fire from the roofs of the outermost houses. Other Frenchmen ran into the alleys where there were no windows and balconies to rain death on them, then sought ways into the town where they surprised the half-companies as they reloaded their muskets and peered into the smoke. Pistols fired, swords and bayonets clashed, and then the greater numbers of the French had forced them back. The half-companies fell back towards the town centre, confused and outflanked, and the defenders in the houses dared not fire for fear of hitting their comrades. Above, the fighting intensified as Frenchmen found ways to cross the gap between roofs. Some, where the houses were built closely together, simply jumped from one roof to the other. The British shot the first few that made the leap, then bayoneted the next, but once again the French overpowered them through their sheer strength of numbers, then flooded into the houses and killed the defenders inside. Other groups of Frenchmen resorted to out-shooting their enemies, pouring fire at the rooftops until the defending British were all dead or wounded. Houses fell, the screams rising above the thunder of musketry as the redcoats inside were slaughtered. Many houses still stood, but now there were not enough redcoats to stop the French from entering the streets. Grenades dropped and muskets banged, but the French lunged into windows with bayonets or fired up at and into them and soon the grenadiers ran out of grenades and the French broke into the houses, shooting through locks and battering through the barricades.

The momentum of the French attack carried most of them into the town square where Brigadier General Sharpe waited with his reserves. A full battalion's worth of men stood in four ranks bristling with bayonets, hundreds more in the tall houses along the town where they now aimed their muskets at the onrushing enemy. The Majors commanding the position waited until the French came close enough, then shouted the order.

"Fire!"

Smoke blotted the redcoats from sight. The first volley crashed out to pile a barrier of bodies on the cobbles of the square, then the rear ranks fired to add to the sprawl as the leading Frenchmen were battered down by the continuous volleys of musketry. More smoke drifted slowly down from the houses as the redcoats blasted their muskets at the closely-packed enemy.

The French fired back. Colonel Kinney roared an order and died as a bullet pierced his jacket and lanced into his heart. Colonel Chalmers was grazed in the arm as he swung his sword down. A second bullet glanced off one of his ribs, then a third struck him in the chest. His mouth opened in shock as he fell backwards, but by sheer luck the bullet had been absorbed by a medal he wore and he was dragged out of the ranks as his mouth opened and closed, surprised and stunned but relatively unhurt. Men were struck as they reloaded their muskets, folding over silently or screaming horribly as they fell. Corporals dragged the dead bodies out of the lines, tugging the men together to fill the gap. Above the cacophony of musket fire the sergeants were shouting the litany of battle. "Close up! Close up!"

The French assault stalled in the town square, a torrent of musket fire pouring down on them from all three sides. The pattern of the previous day repeated itself as the French fell back from the relentless volley fire. The British let out a massive cheer as they went forward with bayonets, driving the enemy out of the town, but then there was a great roar and Sharpe trained his telescope on the outskirts of the town to see a whole new column of French infantry flooding into the streets. The men in the front ranks of the column wore moustaches and plumed bearskins; the massed grenadiers of the entire division, the biggest and strongest fighters in the French General's force, and now they were hurled at the British defences like a human cannon ball.

The redcoats, fighting their way through the streets and maddened with battle lust, were caught unawares by the grenadiers' counterattack. Suddenly the streets were filled with huge men wearing bearskins and epaulettes, blasting at the redcoats with muskets or stabbing with bayonets. The retreating French from the first attack were swept up in the charge and screamed wildly as they joined the assault and forced the British back through the streets they had been driven from only moments ago. The redcoats, tired and confused by the sudden turn of events, retreated from the vengeful French and their blood-reddened bayonets.

Once again the French charge washed into the town square, but this time no volleys greeted them because the defenders had all been caught up in the fight. The redcoats in the houses opened fire as the enemy came howling back into their line of fire, but the attack was now too massive to be stopped by their fire alone.

Sharpe watched aghast as his men went back from the French onslaught. The riflemen around him were loading and firing, cursing as the powder smoke obscured their aim. The French seemed to be winning everywhere. A wounded lieutenant had arrived moments ago with a report that the French had widened their attack and were overunning the houses in the east and west of the town. All around him, the crackle of musketry and thick banks of powder smoke grew closer to the town square, evidence that his defences along the outskirts were collapsing. The half-companies in the eastern and western streets seemed to be holding for the moment, but the north had been smashed wide open and Sharpe knew it could not be long before the victorious Frenchmen streamed into the alleys and streets to attack those redcoats from the rear. His thoughts became desperate and fear rushed into him. He had to stop the French somehow, but with what? The men in the houses were doing all they could, blinding themselves with powder smoke as they poured their relentless fire at the square, and still the French came on. The outer defences had either fallen or were fighting for their lives. The reserves were fleeing from a force four times their number.

Then there was sudden crash of muskets and Sharpe twisted around to see a rush of redcoats charging from the southern streets. They halted at the edge of the town square where they formed four ragged ranks to receive the French charge. Sharpe glimpsed Gough running in behind the line and realised that he must have ordered his men out of the southern houses to rescue the beleaguered reserves before the French momentum overwhelmed the town.

"Fire!" Gough bellowed.

The musket flames jetted into the air as the volley struck the French charge. A second volley whipped out over the blood-slickened stones to hurl more grenadiers back, but still the enemy came forward. Frenchmen tripped on fallen comrades, screaming as they were hit, but the sheer weight of the assault was forcing them onwards and into the blistering hail of musketry. More redcoats formed ranks behind the kneeling men as officers organised the survivors of Sharpe's reserves.. Above them, the redcoats in the houses kept up their relentless fusillade, adding to the sprawl of bodies that cooled on the cobbled stones.

And there, for a while, the attack stalled. The French had filled half the town with dead and wounded, then captured it, but once again were forced to a halt at the very heart of the town. Gradually, the message was relayed down the mass of Frenchmen and they began to edge away from the devastating musketry, taking shelter in the captured part of the town just beyond the town square they had come so close to capturing. They were just a stone's throw away from the lines of redcoats that waited with grim faces and loaded muskets, and once those men were thrown back they would be driven out of the town like rats before the slaughter, then the cavalry brigade would be released to slash and spear this enemy that had caused them such grevious loss into bloody ruin.

The day just needed one more push, one last charge, and Sharpe's force would be finished.


	7. Chapter 7: The Relief

The French General tried to make victory certain by sending forward the rest of his reserves. He did not order them to attack the town square, instead he sent them to the left and right of the town to take the houses there. The English commander, he knew, could not defend everything at once. His northern defences had already fallen, and from the report of the frantic surge that had stopped his latest assault at the last minute he guessed that the British had taken troops from somewhere else, which meant that some other part of the defence had been weakened. It would only be a matter of time before his fresh troops discovered their weakness, then the British would be surrounded on all four sides and, as fast as they were with their muskets, they would surely fall to this overwhelming attack.

"Go," he waved to the Colonels of the reserve battalions. "Go!"

Let the English wait in the town square. Death was coming for them.

"Sir?"

For the millionth time that day the word reached Sharpe's ears. The tall Rifleman turned towards the voice, seeing one of his Ensign messengers standing a few paces away.

"What is it?"

"French troops, sir." The boy's nervousness showed he understood the seriousness of his message. "More French troops massing on the eastern and western sides. A thousand men each, sir, it looks like, maybe more."

Sharpe nodded wordlessly, then swore under his breath as he turned away. Several thousand Frenchmen already in the streets. Thousands more readying to attack. His face was grim as he did the math.

"They have a bloody corps," he muttered bitterly.

All around him his men were readying themselves for battle, loading weapons and filling their pouches with new cartridges. The dead and wounded left bloody smears as they were dragged or carried across the cobbles. There were many of them. He glanced up at the sky to gauge the time. The sun blazed directly above him. Only noon. Enough time for the French to regroup and kill the rest of his men, Sharpe thought. For a moment he toyed with the idea of surrender, then closed his eyes briefly. His orders were to hold the French as long as was needed.

The crackle of musketry rose again in the distance and he knew there was no stopping the French this time. There was nothing more he could do. Another half-hour of fighting, perhaps, then it would be over.

A last thought made him turn to his ensigns.

"Where are the colours?"

"Up there, sir." One of the ensigns pointed to the bell tower where the eight large flags hung from windows. Sharpe beckoned three of them over.

"Take the colours," he told them. "And get out of the town. Ride south and don't stop until you reach the rest of the army."

"The colours, sir?" They gaped.

"Do it!" Despair made Sharpe lash out. "Now!"

A fourth ensign stepped over. "Sir?"

Sharpe rounded on him. "What?" he said savagely.

"There's a brigade of French lancers, sir, north of the town. They pushed Captain Derritt's troop back."

Sharpe swore. "Then hide them! Take the colours, scatter them and hide them somewhere in this place! The French can't be allowed to get to them!"

He strode away before they could comprehend the full meaning of his orders. The realisation on their faces and stammering questions would only worsen his mood. He drew his sword a few inches, rammed it back into its scabbard.

"Damn it," he said quietly. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."

The French were breaking through his defences. Lancers had already cut the road to Lisbon. There was no way out.

The sounds of muskets came closer as redcoats fell back against the assault. Officers, sweating and hatless, came with news that the streets to the east and west were being overrun by Frenchmen.

Brigadier General Sharpe seemed to only half-hear the news. The tall rifleman nodded distantly, shaking his head when they asked for orders.

"Hold as best as you can," was the reply, and the officers, puzzled by the change in the General's normally alert demeanour, could only nod and wonder what he had up his sleeve.

A massive roar filled the air as the French surged once more into the town square. An explosion of musket fire hammered the air as every British gun opened fire. Smoke blotted the French from sight for a moment, then the wall of dark uniforms burst through the cloud and English voices were shouting, "Bayonets!"

Four ranks of redcoats straightened and levelled their blades. Both sides howled enough to fill the world and then the two sides met with a crash that numbed the sounds that came after. The momentum of the charge forced bodies onto the hedge of bayonets. Men folded over on both sides. The front ranks were crushed together by the press of men and could do little more than spit into each other's faces, then the rear ranks rammed bayonets up and over their comrades in the front and their snarls faded into choking agony as they fell. Pistols flared on both sides as officers joined the fight.

The redcoats were hard-pressed to hold the line. The sheer weight of the French forced them back, but they had been fighting all their lives and ripped into the enemy with a ferocity that the French conscripts could not match. They gave no ground except over the bodies of their dead, yet the French inexorably ground on until the British had been driven out of the town square and into the alleys and streets beyond. The whole square was filled with a seething mass of Frenchmen. The redcoats in the houses could hardly miss against such a horde, but there were under attack from two sides now as the French overwhelmed them from behind.

Brigadier General Sharpe went back with his men, shouting for them to take up positions in the southern houses. The surviving redcoats swarmed onto rooftops and windows, leaning out to pour a blistering hail of musket fire down onto the French.

"The houses!" A French officer saw the slaughter the redcoats were inflicting on his men and pointed with his sword up at the balconies and windows. Into the houses!"

Redcoats jerked back as the French turned their muskets on them. Some died. Others survived and returned fire, screaming hate as they rammed fresh bullets down their fouled barrels. Huddles of men held furniture against the doors as French axes thumped into the flimsy wood. The air was thick with choking smoke.

Sharpe himself went into a large three-storey building that was taller than most of the others. All around him were men of the South Essex, his former battalion. Bullets hummed and thumped all around him as he ran up the stairs. The French were pouring fire at every square inch of the buildings, trying to batter the redcoats into submission.

Sharpe emerged onto the rooftop, finding an Irish lieutenant there with fifty of his men. The Irishmen were firing down onto rooftops of other houses that were occupied with French.

Despair filled Sharpe as he gazed across the battered town. Everywhere he looked the French were winning, climbing onto rooftops, filling the streets. His new brigade had been reduced to a ragged mass of redcoats clinging to the southern end of the town. The victories of the day before seemed like a lifetime ago. They were fighting for their lives now.

"Sir! Sir! Look!" The Irish lieutenant grabbed his shoulder, pointed to the south.

A line of hussars had appeared in the distance, hussars who, under the dust of the road, were clad in yellow and blue. Sharpe, recognising the uniforms, gave a shout of pure joy.

"Germans!" an Irishman said in astonishment. The redcoats on the roof began to cheer.

Sharpe felt a great pressure lift from his chest. There would be no massacre, no bitter surrender to the French. The King's German Legion had come to deliver them. The reinforcements had arrived at last.

The French general saw the German horsemen and knew the day was lost. Most of his troops were still in the town and within a few hours he knew a corps of Allied infantry would appear on the horizon. There were no reinforcements for him and then it would only be a matter of time before he was forced to retreat. He turned his gaze to Barca de Alva and swore impotently at the smoke-wreathed town. The damned redcoats had spoiled the entire campaign. He had thought to swallow them up with his corps, but instead they had stuck in the French throat like a bone that could not be spat out. It would take an hour to extricate his men from the town, another hour to get them formed and over the bridge, and by then more British would be in sight and he would be forced to fight a rearguard action, taking even more casualties in the process. Marshal Massena would be furious at the losses and despair and anger swelled in the general as he realised this could spell the end of his career. Certainly there would be no more promotion after such a debacle. At best he would be sent back to France in disgrace, given the lowly task of overseeing the conscription or a militia garrison.

"Damned British!" he roared out loud. "Damn them to hell!"

"Sir?" one of his aides spurred a pace towards him.

"Call them back," the general said bitterly. "Call them all back. Go to Rabiot and Lassan and tell them to withdraw the men. It's over."

"Over, sir?" The aide gaped at him.

"Go!" the general roared. "Go!" He grabbed the aide by his epaulette, wrenched him towards the bridge. "Go, damn you!" He trembled with fury. He had been a soldier since he was a young man and knew no other life. He had no future apart from the army and that future was now gone. There would be no more command, no more for him. There would be _nothing._

An officer approached cautiously, as if he feared the general was about to attack him. "We're retreating, _mon general_?"

"We're retreating," the general said bitterly. The anger evaporated, leaving a tired resignation.

"But why? Surely the town is ours now."

The general lifted his head and saw that the officer was a young man, a captain on his staff. He would probably rise high in the army and the general realised there was wisdom he could impart to the young captain. He turned to the town, pointed at the KGL cavalry.

"Those horsemen," he explained. "Are the vanguard of a British corps. If we do not withdraw now we will find ourselves trapped on the wrong end of the bridge with an army of redcoats."

The captain nodded slowly, understanding. "It's a pity. We almost broke them."

"We almost did." the general agreed. He turned his horse and spurred away, heading back to the camp to issue his orders.

It was over.

Sharpe and his brigade marched from Barca de Alava that same day, relieved by a strong corps of Portuguese that chased the French back over the bridge. The rolling thunder of battle could be heard for some time after and Sharpe, listening by the river as his men tried to melt ice into water, guessed that the French General had realised that the Portuguese could not bring artillery over the weakened bridge and were trying to capitalise on their advantage. The Portuguese evidently realised the same thing, for just before dusk they came marching back into the town, sporting bloody smears on their uniforms from the smashing impact of French cannonballs. They were the fortunate ones, Sharpe thought. They had survived.

Over eight hundred men of his brigade had not been as fortunate. The British graves seemed to stretch as far as Sharpe could see. Close to a thousand more had been wounded and Sharpe felt the bitter pain as much as any of the men. So much death, he thought, staring at the pale, frostbitten corpses, and all for what? Close to nothing had been gained from the brief campaign. The French had disappeared into Spain and would return in the spring with their ranks filled by new recruits.

"Sharpe." The tall rifleman turned to see Major Hogan rein in a few paces from him.

"Hogan." Sharpe's greeting was dull as a musket ball.

"I'm sorry." Hogan shrugged, guessing at Sharpe's mood. "It had to be done."

"Eight hundred dead." Sharpe's voice was raw with anguish.

"I know, Richard, I know."

Around them men cursed as they chipped at the ground with their shovels. The winter snow had frozen the earth solid and it would take hours to dig up even a sparse covering of dirt.

Colonel Leroy brought the two officers steaming tin mugs of tea. Sharpe drank deeply, grateful for the warmth. Hogan took a mouthful and spat it onto the ground.

"Blargh! What's in this?"

"Nothing, sir." Leroy sounded surprised.

"You damned English." Hogan was indignant. This tea's bloody horrible."

Sharpe laughed and took another drink. Steam curled around his eyes as he watched his men struggle, men who had fought for him, given their lives because he had asked. These were no ordinary men, Sharpe thought. They were Sharpe's Brigade.


End file.
